


Glory Will Never Be the Same as Truth

by SegaBarrett



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen, Season 5B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank tries to figure out where he, and Jesse, go from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glory Will Never Be the Same as Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Breaking Bad, and I make no money from this.
> 
> A/N: Title is a lyric from "Do Me a Favor" by Stone Sour.

There were four bedrooms in Hank Schrader’s home. It had been one of those decisions that had happened when they had seen the house on the market for such a good price, even though they didn’t need that many bedrooms; kind of like when Marie had convinced him to get the premium cable channels even though he was never really home long enough to catch anything besides 3AM reruns of St. Elsewhere and Hill Street Blues. He figured that one day they might need three extra bedrooms, and if that day came along – they had them. Marie had successfully decked each of them out in purple already, even when they were vacant of guests. More recently, Holly had stayed in one room and Walt Jr., or Flynn as Marie was insisting on calling him these days, in another. And now?

Now, he had that goddamned junkie Pinkman sleeping in one of those four rooms, and he was beginning to wish that he had stuck one of them on the moon. The idea of him being in the same house as Hank himself wasn’t that upsetting – he’d spent enough of his time around holding cells and the like, after all – but his wife? 

It wasn’t like he thought Pinkman was a threat or anything, not really, but it was still disconcerting, just didn’t seem fair or right. He didn’t want him talking to Marie and setting her off on another one of her… whatever they were, exactly (thank God she wasn’t home right now, she was off shopping… and hopefully paying for everything in her cart). She’d been stressed and doing a lot worse, but who could blame her? It was taking its toll on the both of them, and some days Hank wished he had never told her about Walt at all. She and Skyler would never be the sisters they had been ever again, and besides Hank, Skyler was all Marie had. The only things she’d ever let slip about her parents had never been good, and they were long since gone, either off on their own disaster or dead, Hank never really new which. But no real contact.

He slipped into the room where Pinkman slept with a strange kind of curiosity that he didn’t want to think too hard about, and watched as the kid – the boy – he needed to stop thinking about him like that, like he was some kind of innocent because he wasn’t, even though the way he was sleeping made it seem like that was who he was. His eyes were shut and he was clinging to the blanket for dear life, like something was coming to get him from under the bed, some kind of monster set to grab him and pull him away. Hank knew that monster had a name – Walter White. Maybe that’s what Pinkman’s dreams were full of, images of dead bodies lining the streets and, apparently, a poisoned little kid, a kid that Pinkman had cared for even though he was only a kid himself.

Hank sighed. The sooner the whole thing was done with, the better, even though that would be the last day he’d wear a badge and gun for the DEA. He would have to start a new life, though doing what, he didn’t know. This was the universe truly telling him that it was time to stop being a cop.

He was almost about to leave the room when Pinkman opened his eyes. The light reflected off the blue. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Hank told him dryly. Pinkman let out a quiet moan as he curled further in on himself, and Hank felt a pang of guilt for it. “Coffee’s on the table if you want it.”

“Yeah,” Pinkman murmured, “Thanks.”

Hank was about to turn and walk back to the hall, back to doing something, anything that in no way involved Jesse Pinkman and was all the better for it, but something made him stop in his tracks, in the doorway, and pivot and turn around. 

“You know… He fooled a lot of people,” he commented, hating the vague way that it came off, like he was trying to give Pinkman some sort of an out despite all the things he had done. 

Pinkman shrugged.

“He said I was just as bad. And he was right. But somebody’s gotta stop him. Don’t think it’s going to be you, though.” He didn’t look up at Hank but instead simply down at his hands.

“And why is that?” Hank retorted, wanting to call Pinkman a piss stain or something similar but not finding it in him at the moment. He’d lost a lot of the bravado since Walt’s façade had come tumbling down; he found it again with Gomez, sometimes, but it seemed like both of them understood that it was an act now, not true confidence. How could he be confident when he’d been lied to for a year, hunting a man who was a member of his own damn family?

Pinkman shrugged.

“Because Mr. White always wins,” he told him, and Hank could tell that he truly believed it. How could he still be in awe of this man? Walt was an evil bastard, that was for sure, but he was just an asshole, a smart asshole, but not… Not this God that Pinkman seemed to have made him out to be. Hank had been right back at the station – Walt really had done a number on Jesse. He talked about him with a kind of reverence.

“Not this time,” Hank told him firmly. “Listen, why don’t you get some coffee? You might feel better. You look like hell. When was the last time you slept before this?” Jesse shook his head, indicating that he didn’t know. The kid probably didn’t sleep at all, not with Walt banging around in his head.

“No coffee,” Jesse murmured, “I’m fine.”

“Well, listen, sorry to break it to you but you’re not lying under that blanket for the whole day.” Hank couldn’t figure out exactly why he cared. Maybe it was just something to do, to keep his mind off the pending implosion of his professional and personal life. 

“Why not?” Jesse mumbled.

“Because it’s pathetic. And I don’t feel like being depressed,” Hank replied hotly. “Get your ass downstairs and we can start taking the bastard down.”

Pinkman slowly rocked his body into a sitting position, putting his hands against his face and looking down, not saying much for a long time before he slowly hopped off the bed and started towards the door. He wobbled when he walked, and Hank reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him.

Pinkman’s skin felt like he’d been in a sauna, sweating away for the past week and a half. Hank wondered when the kid had last thought to take a bath.

He led him downstairs, and moved to slip him into a chair at the dining room table. He wasn’t prepared for Pinkman to turn and cling to him, with a deep hitching breath, for one split second before sitting back down in the chair and shutting down all over again.

Hank shook his head. He shuffled back to the stairs, then up to his room and the master bathroom, running water and splashing it on his face. He wasn’t enjoying how helpless Pinkman seemed to be, how responsible he was starting to feel for him.

Maybe once all this was over, he’d make sure the kid got some help, a deal, then maybe plop him back with his girlfriend and her kid and call it even for helping rid the universe, or at least the un-caged one, of Walter White.

But even as Hank thought it, he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

No one went through the grinder of Heisenberg and came out in one piece. He could only hope he’d take the sick bastard with him.


End file.
